If On a Winter's Night
by vallennox
Summary: If on a winter's night, I lay down next to you and we never woke up.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: If on a winter's night

**Author**: vallennox

**Pairing**: Arthur/Eames

**Warning**: it's sad.

**Summary**: If on a winter's night, I lay down next to you and we never woke up.

**Disclaimer**: Everything belongs to Nolan.

**A/N**: Inspired by Sting's album, the one with the same name as this fic here.

**If On a Winter's Night**

Chapter 1

Cobb had certainly not expected this. He'd mentally prepared himself for chaos, miles and miles of debris, blood and ash and fire, ruins of once-gorgeous cities, even Limbo, but not _this_.

He was standing in a tranquil valley, and it was snowing, not a blizzard, but a tender, almost pleasing sprinkle. The sky was deep grey, looking dead. He looked around aimlessly. There was a house - a hut, to be exact - standing alone in the middle of this blinding white dreamscape, glowing like a lantern. Cobb sighed heavily, before picking his way towards the hut.

By the time he reached the door he was almost frozen. Cobb banged the door with one numb fist. Something stirred inside the house, no one answered. "Open the damn door, Arthur! I know you're there!" he shouted, kicking the door hard, "Arthur!"

The latch clicked. Wind swirled in with tiny flakes of snow. "Cobb." the point man said dryly, with no intention to invite the other man in. In fact his brown eyes were cold and lifeless, like the snow-covered valley outside. Cobb's heart sank.

"Are you going to let me in or not."

Arthur simply stared at him, expressionless.

"Goddamnit, Arthur, I'm not a projection."

Arthur shrugged, then stepped aside. It was almost as cold inside, but at least there were walls to shield the wind off. The hut was empty except for a small round table, a chair and a bed. "Where's he?" Cobb asked.

"He's not here, we're not deep enough." Arthur replied wearily, "If I could just…"

"You are not going any deeper, you heard me?" Cobb cut him off, "and you are not coming down here alone, not till you've fully recovered. Now go back up there with me."

Arthur ignored him. He braced his hands on the window sill, watched the snow fall. "I just wanted to see what he was dreaming, Cobb." he said, "and…"

Cobb shot him in the back of his head.

—

His eyes flicked open. The white ceiling of the hospital and Cobb's worried face were hovering above him, slightly blurred, PASIV device humming softly on the bedside table. "Don't you dare do that again." Cobb warned as he pulled the IVs out of their veins, "When I walked in five minutes ago I thought you'd trapped yourself in Limbo with him." he glanced at the unconscious man on the hospital bed.

"I know what I'm doing, Cobb." Arthur murmured, reached for Eames' hands. They were warm and dry and calloused like they always been. The point man sighed.

"You've no idea how dangerous it can be to-"

"God's sake, Cobb, I'm not seven years old." Arthur snapped.

Cobb was silent for a minute.

"He's not coming back, Arthur, you know it."

"Yes."

"Please…promise me this, don't…lose yourself."

Something in the extractor's voice made the point man look up at him, "I won't." he said, voice softened.

He wasn't sure of it, though.

—

Coma, the doctor told him, you know what it's like; Mr. Chambers might wake up tomorrow, or fifteen years later.

It took Arthur a while to remember that Victor Chambers was one of the many fake names Eames used. He didn't understand a single word the doc had said, but he nodded automatically. All you have to do is wait, yeah, he knew what it's like to _wait_. After all, he's the one who's always been waiting.

Fast backward to that cool autumn morning when Eames got up earlier than Arthur for the first time and made themselves breakfast. Arthur padded into the kitchenette of their rented apartment half an hour later, still in his pajamas. Eames turned to kiss him, "Morning."

"Morning," Arthur mumbled, his eyes fell on two plates of indefinable object, "What are these?"

"Omelets, my love."

"They look like half-digested omelets to me."

"You hurt me, darling." Eames wrapped himself around Arthur, nibbling his neck, "this is supposed to be a surprise."

"More like shock."

"Hmm." warm lips moved up to his earlobe, Arthur shivered, Eames smiled triumphantly, "…luckily I've got something better."

Arthur detached himself from Eames' arms, the forger shrugged, "coffee?" he offered.

"What are you up to, Eames?"

"You're such a peevish kitten." Eames chuckled; the point man blushed a little, but remained defiant. "Whenever you put on that puppy-dog look I know something bad is going to happen." he said.

"Well," Eames shrugged again, poking the omelet with a fork, "I'm leaving this afternoon"

Arthur's heart skipped a beat; he licked his lips unconsciously, "Mind explain why?"

"Job. One of my, um, friends called last night."

"Oh," Arthur said, trying to sound casual despite the lump that was forming in his throat, "I thought we were staying here till next Tuesday." They've just arrived in Birmingham three days ago, intending to spend a week or so together.

"Sorry, love, couldn't resist." the forger leaned closer to press an apologizing kiss on his lips.

Since when have you become a workaholic? Arthur swallowed the sentence back, but the lump in his throat refused to go with it. "Go pack your mess up, I'll remake the breakfast, tell me you haven't wasted all the eggs."

Eames didn't tell him where he was going or how long the thing was going to take. Arthur told himself he didn't mind, really. Why should he care? They were not married or something. The unsaid consensus between them was that they don't meddle in each other's life. What he had to face was an empty apartment and four lonely days, no big deal. It's perfectly fine.

As for the disappointment that was clenching his heart, Arthur figured that was because of the fact that Eames had indeed used up all the eggs.

Do remember this apartment; they would come back to it, in the end.

Arthur drove him to the airport that afternoon, on his way home he made a detour to Sainsbury's for eggs and milk and the like. He made supper, ate it alone. The sound of fork touching plate seemed unbearably loud. Arthur turned the TV on, gratefully filled the room with noises he used to hate.

Life with Eames is unbearable, life without Eames is horrible.

This is one big secret he would bring with him to the grave.

Eames disappeared, vaporized. For at least two months Arthur hadn't heard a single word about Mr. BestForger, or maybe it's because he didn't try to. Arthur left Birmingham for the States where Cobb and an Australian architect were waiting, and gladly immersed himself into work. Everything was going smoothly for him again, though he'd slowly developed a habit of leaving the TV on during supper time.

They had their work done two days before Christmas, if Eames were here he would probably stuff the files into a green-and-red stocking before sending them to the biochemistry company that hired them. Arthur made a stupid mistake of mentioning this to Cobb, who gave him a worried look as though he'd just announced he's going to quit the job and fly to New York to start a new life as a stripper. Arthur wanted to cut off his own tongue, or punch Eames in the face, if he had any clue where the forger might be, both choices seemed alluring.

It snowed hard the following day, Arthur didn't get out of bed until 11:00 and spent the whole afternoon watching DVDs, then went back to bed without supper. The scream and laughter of the neighbor kids shattered the comforting silence in his bedroom. He lay there staring into the darkness, waiting for it to stop. Because God wanted Arthur to feel worse, the door bell rang.

He groaned, pressed the pillow over his ears. Whoever outside the door can go and screw himself. He's not going to get out of this warm bed.

The buzz paused, as if to catch a breath, then started all over again. Arthur struggled out of bed, fumbled for his Browning in the night table. He's definitely going to paint the wall with the guy's gray matter.

Arthur cautiously peeked through the peephole, the corridor was dim but still there was enough light for him to make out the unexpected visitor's gray eyes and stubbled jaw. Arthur almost dropped his gun.

He pulled the door open.

The British man leaned languidly on the door frame, as though the thing was specially designed for him or him for it, a playful smirk twitching his lips. Arthur wanted to say _Eames_ or _what are you doing here_ or whatever that could make him look less like a fool, but his vocal cord had stopped working. Eames was grinning in a way that made something in Arthur's chest explode.

Arthur hated him.

He also craved to kiss him.

Because his rational mind had become smashed potatoes, his body did the choice for him. Arthur grabbed the forger's collar (God, his hideous shirt) and slammed him to the wall. Eames made a small noise that was halfway between a chuckle and a grunt when their lips met - alright, crashed. Arthur bit him, hard enough to hurt, "you," he said breathlessly when they separated, both desperate for air, "I hate you."

"That's what you say to your lover?"

"I don't have a lover, even if I do, it won't be a bastard like you."

Eames laughed, hands winding their way into Arthur's briefs. "I assume the underlying meaning of what you've just said is 'I need violent sex right now'?"

"Fuck you, Eames."

"Always a pleasure, darling."

Their conversation stopped right there, and didn't restart until two hours later, maybe four, even six. Arthur could hardly remember his own name when Eames collapsed hot and sweaty onto him, let alone counting. "Where have you been?" Arthur asked when he could breathe properly, long fingers lazily toying with Eames' hair.

"Everywhere."

"Huh." Arthur snorted, "…liar."

"I'm not lying, love, I travelled around the world in two months in a hot air balloon."

"Bring me with you next time." Arthur murmured drowsily, before he drifted into dreamless sleep. He thought he felt Eames' lips brush against his forehead, but he didn't know for sure.

—

If Arthur remembered correctly, it was their first time to spend Christmas together, not that this specific day was significant for them; the memorable thing was that Arthur had the warmest and lousiest winter in his life. Eames sang him silly songs every night, until Arthur couldn't stand the noise anymore and hit his face with a pillow. Eames burnt another omelet; Arthur shouted at him, banned him from ever stepping into the kitchen.

Two weeks after Christmas, Eames left without saying goodbye. Arthur woke up alone, feeling cold. He wrapped himself in the blankets. Somehow he knew the apartment was empty, so he didn't bother to get up and check. It's okay, he's used to this, he would wait, a month, a year, years. Things can go this way forever.

The only trouble was, he'd have to fill the unbearable silence with the sound of TV show again.

tbc.


	2. Chapter 2

This chap is more difficult to write than I thought, pray they are not OOC...

To all those who have reviewed: Thank you! and I'm truly sorry for not responding to you personally.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Let's come back to today, to the hospital where Eames lay unconscious, mind trapped somewhere too far down for Arthur to reach.

Cobb stayed a little longer than usual, trying to coax the point man into conversations, but Arthur wasn't listening. The older man left defeated, taking the PASIV with him. Arthur did not protest.

Not long after Cobb's departure, thunder roared as rain poured down, whipping the window, making small _ping_, _ping_, _ping_ noises. The room darkened rapidly, but Arthur remained motionless, still holding Eames' hand.

Arthur never liked rainy days; this offers him a lame explanation to why he was so short-tempered back there in London, where it could rain for five days in a row. They had a fight in Eames' apartment, the kind of fight that involves angry shouting, glaring, huffing, teacup smashing and door banging – Arthur was the one who banged the door and left. He took a flight back to the States the next morning, and he didn't bother to retrieve his stuff from Eames' place, so he didn't see how the other man crumbled on his worn-out couch and drank until he passed out.

A knock at the door snapped him back to reality. A nurse strode in with the confident certainty that spelled "professional", and flipped the lights on with one sharp motion. Arthur recognized her face but failed to recall her name (was it something that began with an 'L'?). She came to brief him about the brain scan tomorrow. Out of habit, Arthur scribbled the time and room number on his Moleskine. Time doesn't matter, he thought, not for Eames, anyway.

Arthur knew very well that old age is never the major cause of death of people like him. He'd imagined the many ways in which he might be killed: a clean shot in the head while he was walking home alone at night; A plane explodes with him in it; car wreck; A long-hoped-for bullet after seemingly endless torture – he can accept a quick and soundless death, or a brutal and painful one, but not this, not a coma, not a half-dead brain - a three-quarters dead brain, perhaps, in Eames' case - in a still-living body.

He left the ward, went downstairs to the small cafeteria. Arthur wouldn't admit it, but he was practically living in the hospital now. He fell asleep almost every night in that uncomfortable chair beside the bed with a book still open on his laps. Cobb had suggested bringing him a camp bed or something. Arthur stared at him as though he were insane, don't be silly, Cobb, he said, I'm _not_ living in the hospital. I come by a few hours each day, that's all.

They both knew "a few hours" meant "at least 12 hours". Cobb had the sympathy not to point it out.

Arthur had no appetite at all but he ordered tomato salad and chicken sandwich anyway, then brought the food back to the ward where Eames and a Penguin Paperback were waiting. "You are not the best forger as you claim to be, you know." He told the unconscious man, as he sat down by his bed, "You're the biggest trouble-maker in the history of mankind, Mr. Eames."

His voice sounded hollow in the silent ward. Unlike all the soothing bullshit Arthur had heard or read. Eames didn't look as though he were asleep; he was just…empty, so lifeless that Arthur wanted to smack him. Instead he turned away, dragging his chair to the window, gazed at the flooded world outside, food forgotten on the bedside table.

—

Arthur might never find out exactly who did it, but it wasn't hard to guess. Both of them had made enemies over the years, some of which powerful enemies, and there are rival teams, old targets, old grudges. All of them would be more than happy to see Eames dead. Arthur wasn't too worried; he had always thought they were careful enough.

…but you can't run away from hatred.

Twenty-two days after _that_ Christmas, Eames called. Arthur heard the transcontinental blip before the other man spoke, he muted the TV, "…you're in Mombasa again, aren't you."

Eames' chuckle sounded like static on the phone, "Are you tabbing on me with you own spy satellite?"

"Don't be silly."

"Where are you right now, darling?"

"My apartment."

"Which one?"

"The one with ugly green curtains."

"_I_ picked those curtains, Arthur dear."

Arthur suppressed a smile, "Thanks for the tip, I finally see why they are bright green and ugly."

"Look, turns out the job's going unexpectedly well, I'll be home in a few days."

"Which home?" Arthur asked, mimicking his accent.

"You know very well that I've got only one home, darling."

Arthur tried to drown his laugh in a cough, he didn't know if he'd succeeded, "so this is why you're calling," he said, "to ask me to leave the door open for you, and to show me how many old MGM movies you've watched."

"That's part of the plan."

Arthur shifted on the couch, staring at an imaginary spot on the opposite wall, "okay, what's the other part of you master plan."

"Happy birthday, love."

"C'est très gentil, except the fact that it's _not_ my birthday today."

"It's not?"

"No, Mr. Eames, you've stolen the wrong file."

He heard some shuffling on the other side, "well, before I say I miss you I need some kind of cover-up, right, love?"

"I can't believe I'm having this stupid conversation with you." he sighed before hanging up.

—

Eames sneaked into Arthur's flat in his usual way - meaning, climb in through the living room window - one Sunday morning while the resident was brewing coffee. "You've got a problem with the front door?" the point man asked without turning round.

"Your landlady seems disagreeable."

"Mrs. Turner is _very_ amiable. I've told you the only reason why she keeps staring at you is that you do look suspicious." he opened the cupboard in search of teabags; Eames prefers black tea, "Don't touch my cookies, Mr. Eames."

The other man had already stuffed a handful of the said cookies into his mouth, "Whatdiyesay?"

Arthur tried to murder Eames by staring at him, "Never mind."

Eames flashed him a self-satisfied grin, which is rather hard to accomplish with a mouthful of almond cookies.

"Is it safe for you to be here?" Arthur asked, slapped his hand away from the beloved snack, "I heard –"

"Don't worry about that, love, I'll find a way to straighten things out."

Arthur raised a questioning eyebrow.

"What did you do, Eames?"

"Nothing."

"Then why would Kener Technology want you in a body bag?"

Eames shrugged, "because I double-crossed them?"

Arthur set the kettle aside, "the job didn't 'go well'," he said, "you messed it up, again. Eames, do you always have to – whatever." he shook his head, "I should kick you out before the Kener guys rush in with loaded guns."

"You should."

They stared at each other like a pair of idiots for a few minutes, an hour maybe, until Arthur broke their eye contact and sipped at his now lukewarm coffee. "Don't sing me silly lullabies, unless you want to sleep on the couch." he muttered into the cup.

"As you wish, darling."

"…and no smoking in my bedroom."

"Wouldn't even dream of it."

"Don't set foot in the kitchen without my permission, your cooking is declared unfit for human consumption."

"Are we done with the regulations?"

"No, don't try to dis -"

Eames pinned him to the fridge and swallowed all the unsaid words.

Carelessness, plus excessive confidence, Arthur thought, will someday, somehow get Eames killed. However on his way back home from the supermarket Arthur had certainly not expected that day to be _someday_. There was an accident on the highway, turning his usual 45-minute drive into a three-hour nightmare. By the time he left his rental on the shoulder of the road he was hungry, exhausted and really pissed. He made his way to the miserable-looking townhouse ("barracks." Eames once said.), carrying the grocery bag under one arm as though it were a loaded hand canon.

The hallway was dark, which was quite unusual; normally Mrs. Turner would have all the lights turned on before nightfall. Arthur reached for the switch, no use, electricity was out, again, one of the many drawbacks of old houses. Why didn't Mrs. Turner call the electrician?

There was something – someone, a silhouette - at the other end of the hallway. Arthur squinted, trying to discern who that was. "Mrs. Turner?" he ventured.

He dropped the grocery bag, reached for his Browning as he slowly approached the motionless figure.

It was his landlady, with a bullet hole in the forehead and blood all over her face and chest. Arthur's heart sank.

He rushed upstairs, not caring if this was a trap. It was even darker in his apartment; all he could make out was the bulky outline of the couch, two toppled chairs and an overturned table.

"Eames?" he called out tentatively. There were dark stains on the floor; Arthur tried not to think about it.

Silence, wind gushed in through the broken window, making those ugly green curtains dance like desperate ghosts.

"They have him." Arthur told Cobb on the way to the airport. He hated the transcontinental blip, now more than ever.

"Who are 'they'." the line was a bit unstable, Cobb sounded like an old man with asthma.

"I don't know."

There was a pause.

"You _must_ disappear, Arthur. Whoever is after him will come after you too."

"I'm on my way to the airport."

"I mean, don't try to look for him."

A longer pause.

Arthur considered saying _I know_, or _I won't_, or _who cares, that arrogant bastard might already be dead_.

Instead he hung up.

tbc.


	3. Chapter 3

chapter 3, hope you enjoy~:)

* * *

It wasn't until Arthur blinked his eyes open that he realized he'd fallen asleep. He glanced down at his watch; it was slightly past 10 p.m. The rain had stopped. Arthur stood from the chair, stretched, went over to push the window open, letting the cool damp breeze in. Eames was a lifeless figure behind him.

He left the ward without a glance back. The door clicked shut and he was surprised how loud it sounded in the stark corridor. Arthur walked downstairs, feeling slightly dizzy, as though he'd been drinking all night. He wanted to go home, to curl under the fluffy duvet and hook up to the PASIV so that he could at least…but then he remembered the current location of the device. Arthur let out a frustrated grunt as he slid into his rental.

He drove back to his apartment, to the suffocating silence and a sleepless night, or a dreamless sleep; he didn't look forward to either of them.

—

They had him tortured.

Eames was about to bleed out when a bunch of hikers found him in a forlorn farmhouse. There was some kind of hi-tech stuff humming softly on the concrete floor beside him. No one knew what that was, neither did the police, but they took it with the victim onto the ambulance anyway, since the man seemed to be…hooked to it. A crumbled piece of paper was found in one of his pockets with a phone number and a name on it, scribbled hastily with a pencil. Naturally the police called that number, called the man named Arthur, presumably the poor man's emergency contact.

It was 2 a.m. when his phone screamed at him. It took Arthur's sleep-fogged brain a few seconds to find out the source of noise. He sat up with a grunt, "'lo?…yes, this's him." he slurred, rubbing his eyes with back of his hand, then, slowly, very slowly, his hand tensed up, followed by his shoulder, his neck, his whole body. His eyes were glazed, widened, staring into nothing. "Where?" he asked hastily, stormed across the room to grab his Moleskine and a pencil, "um, could you say that again?" his hands were shaking against his will, Arthur managed to scrawl down an address and a phone number, "yes…yes, thank you." he hung up before collapsing into a chair. He felt like shouting, or smashing something heavy and fragile into pieces, but he remained seated, clasped his hands firmly together to stop them from shaking. _Calm down_, he told himself, _calm down, you idiot_.

He made it to the hospital the next afternoon, which was incredibly fast because there was an eight-hour flight involved. Eames was in ICU, and a stubborn-looking nurse would not let Arthur in, insisting that only "immediate family" was allowed. He practically _yelled_ at her (something he could not believe he'd done), claiming that he _was_ immediate family. The nurse raised a skeptical eyebrow, before strode away to talk to someone in the backroom. Arthur impatiently drummed his fingers along the wooden counter, trying not to panic, because that would be irrational, unprofessional and inappropriate and, more simply, _Arthur never panics_. Unfortunately, his treacherous mind began looping images of Eames bleeding to death or of Eames in a body bag, tucked carelessly away in a far corner of a freezing morgue, which was not helpful at all.

The nurse returned and told him the answer was still no.

Arthur hated her.

Almost instinctively, he wanted to call Cobb, but he decided against the idea before he reached for his cell phone. Somehow he thought this was something he had to handle all by himself. Something too subtle to translate into words, something secret, something that exists only between him and the unconscious British man who was currently lying behind all those walls.

His hands were still shaking; Arthur shoved them into the pocket of his sweater and for the first time in his life, he let fear take him, wondering how this – this nightmare – could be his reality.

—

It was still dark when he drifted awake. Somewhere down the street a dog barked, probably at a passing car. That damn dog barked almost every night. Arthur was more than tempted to poison it, and he was quite sure his neighbors would be happy to help him with that.

He buried his head under the pillows but no, this's not gonna work. Arthur pulled himself out of the bed with a frustrated sigh, before padded to the kitchen for a few drops of reassuring whisky.

—

Arthur spent his first sleepless night in the hospital, by then he didn't know there were more nights like this coming in a line. The next morning he gave up and called Cobb, who called Saito, who in turn called a friend of a friend of a friend. Money and a few useful contacts quickly squared things out. They made sure when Eames stabilized (that is, if he could make it), he would be transferred to another hospital where everyone knows how to zip up their mouths and that this case would be erased from the police's computer system.

"…what?" Cobb asked, almost dropped his paper cup of steaming tea. They were standing beside the vending machine. A nurse threw them a curious look.

"The doctors removed the PASIV while he was still under." Arthur repeated as they began walking back to the ward, terrified by his own calmness, "that's the cause of the coma, right?"

"I don't know if…"

"You do." Arthur cut him off, "you've seen it before."

Cobb studied his tea for a moment, "Some guy from Germany, an accident," he said, frowning, "years ago."

"Did he make it?"

The older man looked away, as if searching for help from the brown liquid, when he found nothing he turned back, "No. Later his team members tried to pull him back but there was nothing down there, as though his mind had become an empty carton or something. He'd probably be trapped in his own mind till he dies."

Arthur paused at the door, expression unreadable, "you mean he's stuck in Limbo?"

"I don't think so." Cobb shook his head, "I guess it's more like…buried under infinite layers of dreams."

Arthur nodded silently, before turned away from the door and hurried down the empty corridor. Cobb called out after him, twice, but his point man simply ignored him.

—

His eyes fluttered open.

It took him a few seconds to realize he was drooling on the table, a whisky bottle stood empty beside his throbbing head. Arthur groaned, wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, and pulled his aching body out of the chair.

He showered, got dressed, and headed out of his apartment just after 9:00. Forty-five minutes later he knocked at Cobb's door. The team was currently using Cobb's house as a makeshift base. Arthur tugged at his tie unconsciously, and knocked again. It took the Extractor five minutes to answer, Cobb's brows furrowed as soon as his eyes fell on the point man, taking note of the dark shade under his eyes. "Something wrong with me, Cobb?" he asked, knowing quite well that there were, in fact, plenty of things wrong with him.

"No, it's just…" the older man ran a hand through his hair, "nothing, come in."

Ariadne and Yusuf were already there, studying the model of a maze that covered half of the island counter. They both looked up in surprise when Arthur appeared. "Oh, morning, Arthur," Ariadne was first to recover, "we thought you would be, um…I mean, I thought, er, the brain scan?" she bit her lips, looking as though she wished to cut off her own tongue and have it burnt to ashes.

Arthur smiled tiredly, "Yes, there's a brain scan scheduled today," he shrugged, "I figured my presence – or absence – won't make any difference." his words were followed by awkward silence, Arthur pretended not to notice.

"Look, Arthur," Cobb said as he came over to the kitchen, "you don't have to do this if you…"he trailed off, maybe he didn't even know what he wanted to say, Arthur thought.

"I'm not some heart-broken high school girl, Cobb, I'm capable of doing _my job_." he firmly stated, before turning to the maze, "what have I missed, Ariadne?"

—

Infinite layers of dreams?

That was his last thought before he dived into Eames' dream.

He'd mentally prepared himself for chaos, for miles and miles of ruins, for a whirlpool of nightmares, that's why he was surprised to find himself standing in a tranquil, picture post-card valley with tiny flakes of snow sprinkling from the deep gray sky above.

There was a small cabin sitting in the middle of this monotonous dreamscape, glowing like a lantern. He hurried to it, struggling in the knee-deep snow. Something he couldn't define was welling up in his chest, Arthur tried not to think about what was waiting in the hut.

He pushed the door open.

The fire was out, it was cold and dark in the empty cabin.

Arthur felt like a pathetic fool.

—

The case they were working on was an easy one. Their mark's subconscious wasn't militarized. All they had to deal with was a one-layer-dream, when you get killed you simply wake up, nothing to worry about.

Their employer wanted them to extract the mark's memory of his days in the army. If Eames were here he could simply impersonate the mark's superior and throw him questions, but now Cobb had decided to go for his normal methods. Ariadne would recreate the mark's house – where he would feel safe and secure - based on the information Arthur had managed to dig up. Cobb was sure a safe would be hidden somewhere in it.

In fact the safe was in the living room, right beside the fire place. Ariadne knocked on their mark's door and claimed that she'd just got her driver's license and had completely no idea how to park her second-hand Honda in the right place, while Cobb and Arthur work around the lock. By the time the extractor mumbled "I've got it", Arthur heard music echo between the walls, making the windows rattle. Perfect timing.

They woke up. It was done, another job without Eames, or the projection of him. Arthur was content with his self-control, the only thing that marred the perfect picture was the strange feeling in his chest, as though something with stings and sharp teeth was trapped inside, struggling to get out. "…you alright?" he heard Cobb's voice, distant and vague.

"Yes," he replied, and smiled, smiled, smiled, as though his own life depended on the curve of his lips.


	4. Chapter 4

So, final chapter, I'm not sure how it turned out but, well, this is where I thought the story would lead.

a huge 'thank you!' to all of you who had reviewed~❤

* * *

Arthur had stopped going to the hospital.

First week on, everyone seemed worried as well as curious; as days flew by, they were convinced that Arthur - oh, the-always-calm-and-collected-Arthur - had gotten over his grief and given up whatever hope he was holding previously. They even saw those dimples again, from time to time.

They thought he was alright.

He wasn't, he was smoking too much, his face turned into a mask of gloom when there's no one around, and he either crawled into bed drunk or spent seven hours staring at the ceiling.

Arthur had the PASIV back a week ago. Cobb looked a little uncertain when he handed the device to his point man. Arthur had raised an eyebrow at this, "I'm not gonna dream-share with him again, you know."

"Glad to hear it," replied the extractor, a hint of suspicion in his voice. Arthur didn't blame him.

With the existence of the sleek silver suitcase, Arthur found it harder to fight the temptation of immersing into a dream and seek consolation from a projection, even just for a few hours. No, Arthur wouldn't do this, he's a professional, he would never allow personal feelings to override reason. The point man shoved the device into the safe, locked it up, only to reluctantly reopen it and took the PASIV back out.

Just an hour, he thought, as he began setting up the device, five minutes in reality, won't do any harm.

He was in no mood of 'imagining something new' (as Cobb would put it), so he found himself standing in the living room of their rented apartment, the windows were wide open, green curtains flapping in an enjoyable breeze. He smiled at the hideous fabric; Eames' taste was always a mystery to him.

Arthur walked briskly into the bedroom. He remembered now, it was 5 August 2009; Eames got a flu and had to stay in bed for two days. Eames was a terrible patient, always whining and complaining, "I'm having a headache, sweetheart, help me" ("How about I rip that aching head off for you, Mr. Eames." Arthur so replied), "I want chocolate ice-cream, darling - no I'm not five years old, hey, don't stare at me like that, I'm a patient and I deserve to be treated with love and patience.", and, "Darling, please don't dump me because of my unfortunate illness" plus a standard puppy-dog look. Arthur was one millimeter away from losing his mind, one more word drop from the forger's lips and he would not be responsible for his behavior. Ironically, by the time Eames was jumping around again, Arthur got sick. Eames couldn't stop smirking until Arthur kicked him in the stomach.

The mattress dipped a little when Arthur crawled into bed and approached the Eames-shaped lump. The British man somehow managed to wrap himself in a blanket cocoon. "Eames," he whispered, the other man stirred, "wake up."

He heard him yawn, Eames turned to face him, bleary-eyed, "Hullo, love." he said, fighting the tangled blankets, trying to sit up, "what time is it?"

Arthur's breath hitched, he swallowed, "I don't know, four or five I guess." Sunlight filtered in through the curtains, bathing the bedroom in a warm glow. Eames studied his face for a minute, "Are you alright, darling?"

"Yes." Arthur intended to sound nonchalant, but his shaky voice betrayed him. Eames looked both confused and amused, "Hey, _hey_, darling, it's just a flu, I won't die – not so soon, I'm not going to the grave without you."

Arthur hit him with a pillow, "Idiot," he gritted out, "that's not what I'm talking about."

"Very well then, what's that you are – "

Arthur silenced him with a kiss, Eames groaned in surprise when Arthur shoved him flat on his back. His lips were hot and soft and wet as Arthur remembered, and Eames tasted like…nothing, he was only a projection.

"I miss you." he confessed before he could stop himself, they were both panting, Arthur closed his eyes, he could feel Eames' lips curving against his, "Now I'm sure you're not my Arthur," he announced, skimming Arthur's chin with a finger, "my Arthur would shoot himself before telling me he misses me. Who are you?"

"Shut up, Mr. Eames." he hissed, buried his face in the crook of Eames' neck, "I hate you when you start talking."

Eames sighed, "If I don't know any better, love, I'd say you are about to cry." That's it, as Eames placed a soft kiss on his cheek, the worst thing in the world happened.

Arthur wept his heart out.

—

He woke up angry and frustrated. The device was still humming softly on the floor beside the couch; Arthur yanked the tube out and just lay there, blinking tears away. What was he _thinking_? Breaking down in a projection's arms was probably the silliest thing he'd ever done. Arthur felt like shooting someone, more specifically, himself. The dream had made things worse. He found himself shivering for no apparent reason. Arthur packed up the PASIV and headed out of his apartment.

This has to stop.

He swung his rental into the hospital's parking lot an hour later. It was already past visiting hour but Arthur was a 'cas à part'. Nurses drifted past him like soundless ghosts, deliberately ignoring him. Arthur strode into Eames' room, and immediately began setting up the device. He crawled into bed, pressed himself against Eames, he was thinner, muscles slack due to lack of movement, but his body was still warmer than Arthur's. The point man carefully slid the needles into their veins, before pressing the central button.

Dreams engulfed him.

—

He was back in that tiny cabin. The sky, as always, was heavy with clouds. The PASIV case was already waiting for him on the small round table. Not wanting to waste any time, Arthur settled in the wicker chair and pulled a tube out hurriedly. The wind was rattling the windows; he took a deep breath, slid the needle into his waiting vein and went deeper.

The warehouse, Arthur blinked, and sat up from the lawn chair. The sun was about to set, everything was soaked in a warm, orange glow. Arthur slowly got on his feet to survey the whole place. There was no one around, but there were used paper cups scattered on the long table, some of them were still half full. Arthur tentatively touched one of them, the coffee was lukewarm. Ariadne's backpack was carelessly left on another lawn chair. "Eames?" he called out, his voice echoed hollowly in the vast space.

He went deeper.

Next layer down, he wandered in a busy airport, seeking in vain for a familiar face among swarms of travelers. He wished this was a joke, that Eames would mysteriously appear behind him and tease him for the rest of eternity. Arthur plopped down on a blue plastic chair and buried his face in his hands.

Deeper.

A hospital. Arthur recognized it as the one Ariadne designed for the Fischer job. He was alone, accompanied only by heavy silence. Out there, the snow-covered peak was hidden by mist.

Deeper.

London, a theater, rain, traffic lights.

Deeper.

Gunfire, blood, a basement, the smell of alcohol mixed with gasoline.

_Deeper._

Arthur lost track of how far he went, layers after seemingly endless layers. _Please, just promise me this, don't lose yourself_. Cobb's voice was ringing in his ears, but was soon drowned by another voice, Arthur's own voice, the sound of his subconscious. _Find Eames_, it insisted, _find him_, _bring him back_. _Eames, Eames, Eames_.

Dreams were linked in a strange, confusing way. It seemed that he could travel vertically, using the PASIV, or he could traverse a small park in downtown Los Angeles and found himself in the middle of a desert. Does 'infinite' mean that there would be countless vertical layers, each containing thousands of parallel dreams? Arthur pushed this horrifying thought aside and dived deeper.

He came to a deserted train station, a rather small one, in the middle of nowhere. The air was damp and still, filled up with the smell of grass and dirt. Arthur sat down on a bench and loosened his neck tie, waiting for desperation to catch up with him.

"I'm tired," he whispered, and his words evaporated in the blazing sun.

—

Later, he couldn't tell if he were drifting in dreams or memories.

He revisited the house in which he grew up; the cemetery where his grandfather was buried; his favorite bookstore, and the local museum.

The next second he was sitting beside Mal in Art History class, who was busy chatting with a brown-haired girl. She could always borrow Arthur's notes at the end of the semester, so why bother wasting time listening to that boring old guy? Arthur stood up abruptly, feeling sick. Mal looked up at him, startled. "You alright?" she asked.

Arthur rushed out of the classroom, the dreamscape began to crumble. All of a sudden Mal was behind him. "Arthur," she cooed, in that unique, lilting voice. He turned to face her, just in time to see that crooked smile and the sharp knife in her hand.

—

Arthur jolted awake, panting and shivering, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. When his heartbeat finally returned to normal, he pulled himself out of bed and just stood in the middle of the dimly-lit bedroom, trying to clarify his mind.

The sound of breaking glass made him jump. Someone swore loudly, Arthur almost chocked on his heart. He rushed to the kitchen; a man was crouching beside the stove, clumsily tidying up the mess he'd just made.

Arthur froze on his track, as though his legs had suddenly turned into marble. _Eames_, he felt his lips move, but nothing came out, but the British man seemed to hear his unsaid words, "Oh, morning, love," he chirped gleefully, "I've made us omelets, let's forget about the fact that I've just broken the -"

Arthur shoved him backwards, pinned him to the wall, their lips crushed together, too hard to be called a kiss. He didn't realize he was sobbing until Eames broke the kiss and said "hey,_ hey_, darling, what's wrong?"

Arthur didn't even know where to begin, hundreds of thousands of words clogged in his throat, suffocating him. He wanted to say _don't you remember_, or, _listen, you're in a coma_, or, _this is a dream, we have to find a way back to reality_, but Eames was so warm, solid and _real_. Arthur couldn't bring himself to care about anything else.

"I found you," he finally managed, more tears trickled down his cheek, he brushed them away angrily, "God, I found you."

Eames frowned in confusion, "but I've always been here, my love," he chuckled, patting Arthur's back comfortingly, "where else can I be?"

"Actually, you were, I thought you were, I mean, no, never mind." Arthur shook his head, melted into the other man's arms, feeling exhausted.

"Ah, you had a night mare, didn't you, darling?"

Arthur closed his eyes, his loaded die was in his pocket, but he no longer cared if this was a dream, "a really bad one."

"Hmm," Eames tightened his arms, "it's alright now, love, I'm going to make you coffee, after breakfast you'll completely forget about it, I promise."

"Yes," he agreed, feeling the warmth of happiness fill up his chest as the morning sunlight spilled into their kitchen, "It's alright now."

End

* * *

Thank you for reading!

and special thanks to _greeneye_ and _sartes_, who helped me figured things out and patiently endured my constant harassment:)


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